


We dream colors of promises we broke

by Anonymous



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Belligerent Sexual Tension, Clothed Sex, Ex Sex, F/F, Post-Relationship, Vaginal Fingering, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 18:20:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29422941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: There were still some visitors less welcome than others.
Relationships: Moira O'Deorain/Angela "Mercy" Ziegler
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26
Collections: Anonymous, Chocolate Box - Round 6





	We dream colors of promises we broke

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jaina (effervescible)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/effervescible/gifts).



> [Title credit](https://youtu.be/G3JgQ9GZyM4)

Angela ought to expect uninvited guests by now. If Morrison and Ana could invite themselves into her apartment six years _post mortem_ , so might just anyone else. There were still certain visitors less welcome than others.

Incredibly, Moira looked offended as she blinked down the barrel of the blaster. "Do you always greet old friends so coldly?"

"Not old friends." A tremor crawled up Angela's arm as she steadied her aim. She was rusty with a sidearm, having not used one since Overwatch's fall. She had taken an oath to do no harm—though Overwatch had attempted to undermine her at every turn—and these days she didn't betray her principles so lightly. Not even towards someone who deserved it. "I don't know what you want from me. But the answer is no."

Moira scoffed. "Honestly, Angela. Why must I want something? I happened to be in the area and thought I might stop by. I hoped I might find you well. Is a small chat with an old coworker so out of order?" She remained as poised, and as blasé, as Angela had ever known her to be. Small surprise she was unfazed by the gun waving in her face. Only a few hours ago, Baptiste had reached out to Angela, telling her Talon had managed to track her down. She would have preferred not to have the extra confirmation, all told.

"You don't 'happen' to break and enter my apartment through a locked door." Precisely how Angela did not yet know—the door was latched; her only window was closed and overlooked a three-story drop. Moira might as well have manifested from thin air. "I'm not coming with you without a fight."

"You don't seem that inclined to stay." Moira's gaze glided around the room. Angela's sparse belongings were in the process of being packed away. They would have been fully so if not for the Valkyrie suit, which lay in partial assembly in its bulky crate, its pistol primed to be drawn. One good stroke of luck, even if Moira had otherwise happened to ("happened to") interrupt at the least convenient time. Moira's lip curdled. "You can't intend to go _back_...?"

As her fingertip goaded the trigger, the dorsal tendon of her index finger tented the frail skin of her hand. "My intentions are none of your business. Since _you're_ here I guess they don't matter. But I won't make your job easy." Despite the sultry North African heat, her fingers were cold.

"You assume a great deal," Moira warned.

Angela expected Moira to spring. She did not expect the direction she did: forward. As a blur before her eyes, Moira materialized with cold fingers enclosing the wrist holding Angela's gun. Her grip was steelier than her nonchalance betrayed. A plasma round scorched the ceiling. Moira's arm barely quaked.

"Let _go_ of me—" She jerked away—or tried to. But the cold cuff of Moira's grip tightened around Angela's wrist, pinching the skin to a taut white, strangling her grip, until her gun slipped and tumbled with a thud on the floor. Angela's free fist swung towards Moira's gut—she might as well have punched through smoke. Before Angela could pull it back—before Angela could quite process what had happened—Moira snared her other hand, nails biting deep, fighting her twisting. By the time Angela _had_ caught up with herself, Moira had already flung her to the wall. The back of her skull rang with the thud against the tile.

She effaced the cringe of pain from her features. For her injury was trivial—nanobiotics could repair what would've been head trauma. More pressing was that she was now disarmed and boxed in by Moira's grip. With one angular knee pressed into Angela's groin, Moira pinned her decisively.

"So you know," Moira said, "I'm not here on official Talon business. And your intentions very much matter to me."

"Why should I believe you?"

"I came alone."

She scoffed. "Certainly."

"If I hadn't, you would be dead." Moira's voice lowered, and her glower sharpened. "I dislike having my integrity impugned, Angela. I am not a liar."

"Are you—" A choking noise rattled in Angela's parched throat, hot outrage strangling her. "Don't insult me. You lied to me _continuously._ By omission." That fury surged so quickly because it was, still, seldom far from hand. "You lied to me _professionally._ " If Moira had _only_ lied to her, it would not burn the way this anger burned behind her throat and her eyes.

"I suppose it never occurred to you that you might have known the truth if you had only cared to ask, did it?" The grip on Angela's hands drew tight, beads of hot blood gathering and breaking where Moira's nails clutched. "Well, that was why it suited me to collaborate with Overwatch for as damn long as I did. _You_ frustrate me—" She spoke through a white glint of gritted teeth. "—because I've never known a woman as brilliant as you to be so uninquisitive."

Shamefully, her tongue skipped: "I—frustrate you." She had to say it aloud. A small present-tense victory she now held over Moira—that Angela had remained an ember in Moira's throat the way Moira had been in hers.

Anyone else, pinned by the point of her gaze, might not have noticed the merest softening of Moira's features—the way her throat bobbed. "It was a waste," she murmured. "A damned, execrable waste of an intellect. _You_ were wasted on them."

Angela tasted salt in her Cupid's bow—when did she begin sweating? She had lived long enough in Cairo that she should be used to the heat. Moira let go of one hand. It dropped like an ingot of lead to her side. Tingles of feeling came back into her fingers, but the will to so much as lift her hand had withered from her nerves. Moira loomed so close that Angela could feel the humidity of her breath against her crown. Her heart drummed loud—she wondered if Moira could hear it, could see the carotid flutter trying to escape her skin. It beat in time with the throb in her groin against the press of Moira's knee. Moira's long, cool fingertips cupped Angela's chin. There was a moment where Angela thought they might instead go for her throat. If she tried to crush the fluttering of her pulse, crumple her trachea under her palm—that, for once, would make sense. If she would only _fight_ —maybe Angela could find it in her to raise her hand.

The sweat glistened on Moira's features. Her translucent brow, marbled with her violet veins—her burning cheeks—the dip of her clavicle where clouds of ruddy flush huddled and dampened. With the bare-bulb ceiling light making a copper halo of her hair, she luminesced.

Angela's hips rutted the stony edge of the knee pushed between her legs—and Moira ran her tongue along her lip.

"What," Angela rasped, "do you _want?_ "

Moira groaned. "For God's sake. What have I always wanted?"

When Angela found the vigor to move her hand at last, it gripped Moira by the collar and jerked her to the level of her mouth. She tasted as Angela remembered: medicinal. Bitter.

Moira's tongue plumbed into the recesses of Angela's mouth with familiar curiosity, like she had not explored it a hundred times before. As with everything she did, she sought a breakthrough in the deviations between one instance and the next. Angela wondered, with a turn of her stomach, if so little had really changed between then and now. Perhaps—it hadn't. When Moira's knee lowered, Angela's hips twisted at the air after it, the hollow of her groin aching for its absence.

Moira did not keep her long in suspense—that was never her style, not with Angela. She dragged her hand down Angela's front, tracing lines down Angela's chest, her abdomen—pausing over scars she didn't need to see to know. This too was a small victory, to chisel herself indelibly into the tower of Moira's psyche. When Moira's fingers slipped down her waistband, she sucked in her stomach. Her fingertips were slender, hard and chill, pressing in the soft heat of her mons. Her clitoris announced itself, stiff and shuddering, to Moira's fingertips. Moira made a vee of her fingers, scissoring the clit between them, and Angela tensed so hard her buttocks clenched. With the jellying of her knees came the wet slide of her groin as her hips listed.

She clutched weakly at Moira's chest. Her forearms tensed like she would push Moira back—but tense was all they did as clumsy hands pawed Moira's breasts. As Moira teased her labia apart and investigated the wet hollow between, Angela heard herself whine. She closed her thighs about Moira's wrist, grinding her clit against the heel of her palm. Trapped between the hard wall and Moira, she had nowhere to go but the crook of Moira's shoulder. Like a fever Moira wrapped around her brow. She breathed Moira in, welcomed her into her lungs, and tasted the first relief her smoldering throat had known in years.

"I would have you back, Angela." Moira's voice thrummed in her chest, vibrating against Angela's ear. Her tone condescended—but Angela had never known her not to do that. From her this could be called fondness. "You need only be willing to come."

"M-Moira." The creaky shudder of her voice barely sounded like it belonged to her. She humped herself against Moira's hand, swollen and aching.

Moira's fingers paced themselves, slowing their roll, stroking delicately at the edges of Angela's labia and pondering each spasm. With a bent head and a wistful crescent of a smile, she nipped the shell of Angela's ear. Her hot breath clouded Angela's hazy head. "Come with me," she murmured. "I could make a place for you, in Oasis. You'd be celebrated. You could transform this world."

(Angela might forever question if it was the offer that slapped her across the cheeks, that made the floor of her stomach harden and drop—or if it was the fleeting impulse that she might.)

When she crashed back into her body, she was shaking, though her cheeks and her throat and her palms were damp and hot. The blood that trickled from the open pinpricks in her wrists was by comparison cold. A throb announced itself at the back of her skull. The magmic heat of her cunt roiled—where Moira literally held her in the palm of her hand. The outrage was easy to summon. (It was never far from hand.) She lifted her dizzy head, peering through her sticky hair where it clung to her brow. Moira's lips glistened—her eyes gleamed like they already knew what she would answer.

She resisted the revulsion that wanted to contort her face. It made the flash of bewilderment in Moira's eyes when Angela spat at her that much more satisfying.

She jerked back—for once, speechless, and this was the real victory, the one that stuck in Angela's swelling chest. She hiked up her waistband and squared her shoulders. "You really thought I'd change my conscience for a good fuck." Her grimace was nearly a grin. "You think so little of me."

Now Moira looked crestfallen. "Angela." Too late for the sorry puppy look to stir Angela to sympathy.

She swung her foot at Moira's shin; for once, the blow connected with something solid. Moira stumbled. By the time she regained her posture, Angela had recovered her gun from the floor. Its weight was no less oppressive in her hand, but a fury as hot as pain held her arm aloft and steady. "My stance hasn't changed. Get out."

Moira had schooled her features back into smug serenity. "With anyone else, you know, I'd have rescinded my offer the first time they pointed a gun at me. Yours is still open, for all you've made a fool of me."

" _Get—_ " The tendon of her index finger flexed and crushed the trigger. Light gleamed—plasma hissed—and the blur that had been Moira vanished.

(Angela could not quite quash the relief that she had not killed her.)

Something imperceptible to sight, chilly and oily, slithered about Angela's ankles before abandoning her to the oven of her apartment. She thought she saw black wisps pry at the slim crack beneath her window. But when she bolted to the window and looked down the drop, only strangers' faces peered up—white-faced tourists and brown-faced locals, milling nervously at the flash and sound of blaster fire from the building above. If Talon was not soon to descend on Angela, the authorities were. A stench lingered in the air—bitter, medicinal.

Her heart raced in her ears. It throbbed in time with the unpleasant, receding ache at the back of her skull and the unfulfilled spasms between her legs. The triumphs that had kindled in her chest did not sate her pride the way she'd thought they would. She inhaled long and deep, but found no relief for the ember in her throat.

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this word doc was "presidential alert: the girls are fightingggg" and I swear I fought so hard not to title the finished fic that


End file.
